


Finding the Edge

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Edgeplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to get your next fix as an adrenaline junkie. Maybe that's why John and Sherlock started exploring at the edges. </p>
<p>BDSM and edge play. Lots of angst and some processing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> 100 million thanks to [zooeyscigar](zooeyscigar.tumblr.com) for being a super beta, and actually holding my hand through writing this. Well. Holding my hand over the internet via chats. 
> 
> Part of a WIP that is going to have at least 5 (probably more like 7) chapters. The first 4 should be up pretty quickly-ish, but we'll see what happens after that. I solemnly swear not to abandon this project.

“Hold absolutely still John.”  
  
Yes, of course. How could he not? With the point of the knife at his throat, slowly moving down his neck, from the top of his jawline snaking down to his jugular. Sherlock held the knife still over John’s neck.  
  
He’s taking my pulse, John thought. No need to, though. John could feel his blood pumping, adrenaline kicking in and making his heart race. Fight or flight response—it’s a very reliable thing. Yet John knew this was something more. With each tiny, deliberate movement of the knife, he felt his cock stiffening as well. Should he mention it, risk breaking Sherlock’s concentration? No, it could wait.  
  
John swallowed hard, and heard Sherlock let out a slightly exasperated sigh. Right—no sudden moves. Bit foolish, there. He chanced a look at Sherlock, seeing a look of intense focus in his eyes. He didn’t seem to be withdrawing. Not yet. John hoped not for a while.  
  
Sherlock dragged the flat of the knife down John’s chest, as John watched its careful progression. He held it still at John’s chest, just over his heart, then slowly pressed into John’s flesh with the tip. It wasn’t enough pressure to break the skin, but it still felt dangerous. Sherlock wet his lips, then in a movement that was sudden and unexpected, he pushed his arm to John’s throat and moved the knife to John’s face, his own face now inches from John’s.  
  
“Close your eyes, John.”   
  
Even without Sherlock constricting his breathing, he wouldn’t have been able to inhale or exhale in this moment. He closed his eyes, unsure of where the knife would move next. Sherlock’s breath was hot on John’s face as he felt the tip of the blade tracing along his hairline, slowly curving around his ear, trailing gently and slowly down his neck. Sherlock released some of the pressure from John’s airway, and John attempted a small breath, not wanting to move, to risk the point.   
  
“Be still, John. Breathe, but only when I tell you. That is until I tell you otherwise.”   
  
John felt hypnotised, obeying commands that would normally make him angry. But this wasn’t normal, not yet. They had only done this a couple of times before, and never quite like this. Of course with Sherlock, nothing was ever the same. The detective was so easily bored that John had grown to expect bizarre situations or completely off the wall behaviors.   
  
The first time, it had been an experiment of sorts. There hadn’t been a case in a while, and Sherlock was climbing the walls of their flat out of boredom--almost literally: John had walked in as Sherlock had been balancing himself on the arm of a rather rickety chair, attempting to reach something (John did not ask nor did he want to know what, exactly) that was stuck to the ceiling.   
  
Of course John had pulled him down and tried to think of something, anything, to distract him. When it seemed that nothing he could do would work, John had gone into the kitchen to make a little snack, and was surprised when Sherlock followed. Then John had reached into the drawer and pulled out a knife, laying it down reverently on the countertop in front of him. John had respect for knives, an understanding that this simple, elegant, classic tool could be the key to saving a life or undoing one. It was all a matter of how it was wielded.   
  
And Sherlock had watched as John peeled an apple, then pulled out a different blade to slice it. He was paying far more attention than usual to John’s work in the kitchen, that was certain. He looked on with a surprising amount of interest as John carefully washed and dried the knives and placed them back in the drawer.   
  
“How many of those do we have?” Sherlock asked.   
  
“Oh, apples? I...maybe 1? No, none, this was it, sorry. Would you like to share?” John was frankly surprised that Sherlock cared to eat.   
  
“Not apples, please John. The knives. How many, what type? Just let me look for myself, will you?” and Sherlock pushed past John and looked in the drawer. There was a full set, as well as an old pocketknife of John’s that he’d been meaning to take back to his room. Sherlock was examining them now, pulling them out one at a time and turning them over in the light. Occasionally he made small noises of approval or disapproval. John merely looked on and crunched his apple until Sherlock drew out the pocketknife.   
  
It was small, but the blade was fine and sharp. John took care of his tools and his weapons, a fact he was rather proud of. The handle was a smooth, honey tinged wood that John had actually oiled a few times so that it would have a slight sheen. Nothing that could rival the blade, of course, but enough to show that it was cared for. Looking at it in Sherlock’s hands, he had felt strangely possessive, and wondered why he had left it in this drawer for so long.   
  
“You enjoy knives, John?”   
  
“Well, I’m a doctor, so I appreciate what they can do. And that knife in particular, well I’ve had it since I was about 17 or so. I bought it with my own money and had it with me in the army. So you could say I enjoy that particular knife, yes.”  
  
Sherlock had flicked the blade open, then closed. Open, then closed. It was mesmerizing. In his long, graceful hands, the blade could be swallowed up, then opened and extended. Like magic, John remembered thinking the first time he had seen someone flick open a knife. He smiled at the memory, and Sherlock chose that moment to catch his eyes.   
  
“Not everyone feels as you do about knives, even ones they’ve bought themselves and carried for years. Someone told me once that a man who loves a knife has a hunger for danger that can’t be sated. He wasn’t right about many things, but that seems true for you, John.”  
  
John had nodded, mind still half stuck on the image from his childhood: an older playmate in the woods pulling a small knife out of his trouser pocket and sliding it open to show him the blade. The glint of steel in the dappled sunlight and his envy and excitement watching the other boy sharpen a stick to a fine point with the knife. He had gone home and begged for a switchblade, only to be told that they were too dangerous for children, and no matter if Billy had one or not, he’d not get a pocketknife until he got it with his own money.   
  
“It started when you were small. A child no more than 8 or 9. But you never lost the fascination at how such a small object could be so versatile. Have you ever had one at your throat?”  
  
The question startled John from his reverie and into the moment. Sherlock held the knife, point out, his eyes searching John’s for a clue as to whether or not he could proceed. “Would you like to know how it feels? To have the point press just so, not breaking the skin but sensitizing it?” Sherlock inched subtly closer. “Think of it, John. Your entire focus at the point of a knife. Could be dangerous.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “so, what do you say?”   
  
John’s eyes darted between the knife point and Sherlock’s eyes as his pulse quickened. He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat and found it replaced with curiosity and arousal. A quick nod of his head settled it, and Sherlock had moved in closer with the knife. That first time had been a slow tease, the blade dragging slow and easy, first along his hands, then up his forearms, then moving on to his neck. It was exhilarating in its simplicity, and in the practiced ease with which Sherlock did it. And yet it still felt dangerous. John knew right away he’d want it again if it was offered. God, yes. Anytime.   
  
#######  
  
And so now he did as Sherlock bade him, eyes closed and breath only trickling in and out of him until he was told he could breathe fully. Sherlock ran the knife up over John’s adam’s apple, then past his chin. He began tracing the contours and curves of John’s face with the point of the knife, over eyebrows and nose and mouth and then into small creases and lines, as though he were carving John out of clay. It was tender and gentle, and John felt himself melting into the sensation of it. “Breathe,” came the command. And John breathed and sighed in spite of himself.   
  
His mouth was still just slightly open when Sherlock brought the blade to his lips again, tracing their outline with the knife tip. It took all John’s control not to shiver with the feeling of it.   
  
“Kneel, John,” he said, drawing the knife away. “And breathe, deeply.”   
  
John felt the world tilting away from him. Could this be Sherlock’s way of taking this new part of their relationship to a more sexual place? Was this just for purposes of having John submit to something, to more than he already had? John breathed, just as he knew Sherlock was about to remind him to, as he slowly sunk to his knees.   
  
His cock was still half-hard, and now his stomach churned and his mind raced. He didn’t know if he wanted this, if he wanted Sherlock. His lips were still parted, though, and he was breathing in and out, focusing on breath and desire. He would try it, would try almost anything if Sherlock took him there.   
  
“Open your mouth a bit wider, John, and trust me.”   
  
The flat of the knife was cool on his lips. He couldn’t feel the tip, but he knew if he moved his tongue he’d find it. Sherlock was using the lightest possible touch, just barely resting the knife on John’s open mouth. Slowly, carefully, he began moving it back and forth over John’s tongue, in and out of John’s mouth. It was achingly slow, torturous, really, when combined with the light pressure. Then, a bit more pressure--John could feel the weight of the blade now, and he kept his mouth open wide and his tongue flat so as not to risk a cut. When Sherlock stopped moving the blade, John responded by being more forceful. He licked hungrily at the blade, teasing along duller edge and sucking gently at the tip. He wanted to open his eyes and look up, wanted to see Sherlock lost in some kind of ecstasy at the display. Yes, he was fully hard now and it would feel good to see the desire he was feeling reflected back into him.   
  
But he kept his eyes closed, fearing that opening them would show him an impassive, calculating Sherlock, one whose only passion was for data collection and aggregation.   
  
John felt Sherlock’s long fingers curling into his hair, pulling him back from the blade. His breath was coming fast and hard, and he felt his mouth opening, aching for something. Something hard and dangerous--the blade, Sherlock, something that would split him open and let everything come spilling out.   
  
Sherlock pulled John’s head back a bit, and John opened his mouth wider. He couldn’t beg, not with words, but this was close enough. And then the knife was back, though it had been flicked closed. Not dangerous anymore, then, but John took it anyway, and as his tongue slid up the wooden handle, he tasted flesh too.   
  
Sherlock’s fingers, his hands--John could just picture him holding the blade, keeping it tucked back a bit, a secret. He didn’t have to give this to John, but he was, and John took it greedily, closing his mouth over the handle and two of Sherlock’s fingers. He wanted the knife gone, now.   
  
He drew his head back and breathed, and when he came back he had gotten his wish. He met with Sherlock’s thumb, and he opened his mouth against the flat pad of it as he had done with the knife at first. Like the knife, the pressure grew against him, heavier, more. He closed his mouth around the single digit and sucked in earnest, pulling back slowly then swirling his tongue around the tip. He longed to chance a look up. He heard nothing from Sherlock, no moans or sighs. But the other hand was still in his hair and pulled him back, the thumb leaving his mouth with a pop.   
  
God, that hand in his hair, fisted into him. Was he supposed to stop now? Would he just be pulled up and brushed off and sent away? His heart was racing, more than it had with the knife at his throat. And then he felt two fingers at his mouth, and heard Sherlock’s voice, lower, more a purr than John had thought possible, “Relax, John.”   
  
John was tense, straining. He hadn’t ever wanted another man, not like this. Oh, he had a few college stories, long nights of drinking with his mates that ended with stumbling home, fumbling through a sloppy kiss or two that was forgotten by the morning. Well, not forgotten by him. But he had never felt this need for a man, not like he felt for Sherlock. He relaxed, his head settling into the cradle of Sherlock’s palm. “Open for me, John.”   
  
Sherlock’s fingers entered into John’s mouth, and John closed around them. Sherlock was moving John’s head, controlling him, forcing John to take his fingers deeper, to the back of his throat. John struggled not to gag, to open himself to taking more. More, yes. What would it be like to have Sherlock’s cock in his mouth? Only one way to find out.   
  
He reached out a tentative hand and touched Sherlock’s leg, moving cautiously upwards. His own erection was now obvious, he was sure. Would he find the same from Sherlock? As his hand inched up Sherlock’s thigh, he felt a change in the other man, a tension that overtook Sherlock’s whole body. John stilled his hand, waiting, but still allowing Sherlock to explore his mouth. Sherlock tightened his grasp on John’s hair, pulling him back and extracting his fingers from John’s mouth, John moaning with a mixture of sadness and longing.   
  
Sherlock went to his knees, and John once again felt the knife blade against his mouth, this time laid flat, like half an X across his lips. “Open your eyes, John.”   
  
Their faces were so close that were the knife not between them, John would not have been able to stop himself from kissing Sherlock. Then he felt Sherlock’s other hand slide up his body and fist into his hair again, holding him still. Keeping him from attempting to make any other contact. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face mysterious and still. His lips were flushed, bitten, perhaps.   
  
His hold on John’s hair steadied them both. John felt as though he could rock into Sherlock, tumble into him, if only he would open his eyes, let John see his pupils dilated and black against the stormy blue-grey-green of his irises. He wanted to speak, to say this, but the knife held him silent, stopped him, stopped everything.   
  
Everything was balanced on the knife’s edge as Sherlock took it from flat end to point, his touch so delicate and sure that even with his eyes closed he seemed to know the exact location of John’s mouth. Sherlock breathed deeply in and out three times before he opened his eyes. They were still and cool, impassive. John was on the verge of falling apart. He was held together by that hand on the back of his head. Did Sherlock understand? Had he simply forced himself to regain his composure so quickly, or had he merely been testing, observing, cataloging this time? John still couldn’t speak, could barely breathe.   
  
Sherlock broke the silence in his deep baritone whisper. “You were very good, John. Very good.” It was nearly too much. John’s breath came to him in tatters, worn down. Sherlock ran his hand through John’s hair and down his back, and John relaxed into the gentle comfort of the touch, the animal softness bringing him back into his body. He was tired, exhausted even, but he had to speak.   
  
“Sherlock, I, that is, when you...” he trailed off. The words felt heavy and too hard to say, and his mind was moving slowly over each thought, tracing the rise and fall of words and letters. He couldn’t make Sherlock understand, not now, possibly not ever. His need, the need to be wanted and kept and somehow safely in danger. These were the things he was getting from this, and he wanted.   
  
John’s thoughts stopped as Sherlock moved forward, his body pressing into John’s and his arms folding around the other man. He was still petting John, running his hands gently down John’s back and just breathing him in, and John let himself sink down into the embrace. He wasn’t sure what was happening, and he knew that, at least today, he’d hold back from telling Sherlock about what had been rising up inside of him. He fit his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and breathed, slowly and steadily. For now there was this, tenderness and touch and trust, and it was enough. Just enough.   
  
**  
**


End file.
